


Cold Vapour

by theskywasblue



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:28:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27907483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/pseuds/theskywasblue
Summary: It has never been easy, but it has always been worth it.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43





	Cold Vapour

**Author's Note:**

> I need a title for this universe, but I haven't thought of one yet...anyway, this follows the events of [Long Migrations](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27744397)

“Look, Cas - I’m a dragon!” Lilly plants her feet in the dry, crackling grass, and throws her head back in an exaggerated roar, exhaling a great cloud of silver-spun breath into the grey winter sky. “Try it!”

Castiel tips his head back and exhales slowly, a long stream of silver vapour spiraling around itself as it rises upwards.

Lilly laughs, “No - not like that - bigger!” she insists, providing a second demonstration. Castiel takes a long breath - as much of the sharp, cold air as his lungs can hold - before exhaling in a great gust, with something more like an exaggerated sigh than an actual roar, creating a thick, bright cloud.

“Right!” Lilly laughs, already springing away across the yard. Her cheeks glow pink against the cold of the hazy morning. Castiel’s own face feels stiff, and he stuffs his chilled hands into the pockets of his coat as he trails after her across the lawn. He _has_ gloves, but always forgets them, in the small bin next to the front door. The only insulation he has now is the bandage on his hand, from the kitchen accident the previous night. He presses his thumb against it, waking a twinge of pain, which rouses the memory of sharp anger in Dean’s voice.

_“Well maybe if you didn’t -”_

_“If I didn’t_ \- what - _Dean?”_

The memory of the argument that followed is sour at the back of his throat, makes his eyes sting, like onion vapour.

“I want it to snow,” Lilly announces suddenly, jerking Castiel rudely from his thoughts. She kicks her shoe against some dry weeds poking up near the fence. “Cas, when is it going to snow?”

“I don’t know.” Though it certainly seems like it could at any moment. The clouds look heavy, darkening on the western horizon, and the air has a metallic sharpness that bites at exposed skin.

“I’m going to ask Jack,” she decides, “Jack, when is it going to snow?”

She speaks as if Jack is right next to them, though he isn’t - at least, not in a physical sense. Sometimes, Castiel feels as if he might be watching, but it’s difficult to say. Castiel’s grace remains little more than an ember; he has no connection to the heavenly host. If he feels Jack’s presence in anything, it is either wishful thinking,or because Jack wants him to.

If he still had his wings, Castiel thinks, he might have left last night, rather than fight with Dean. Rather than simply retreat to bed, to wake much later with Dean sleeping on the farthest edge of the bed beside him, as if he didn’t dare touch him, even passively.

“Did he answer?” Castiel asks at last, once the silence has stretched out to almost snapping.

“No,” Lilly sighs dramatically, as if Jack’s absence weighs on her. “But Daddy says he’s very, very busy.”

“Yes. Caring for the world is a difficult job.” Too difficult, Castiel often worries. So far, Jack seems to be coping well with the responsibilities of divinity; but he is so young (almost laughably so) and the work - as Castiel knows from experience - can be terribly lonely. They’ve discussed more than once whether there might be a way to set the universe on some kind of track, which would require very little intervention for decades or even centuries, and might allow Jack to return to Earth, at least temporarily. He doesn’t want Jack to forget what it means to live, or how to love the simpler aspects of humanity. 

As it turns out, knowing that the stewardship of Earth is Jack’s destiny, and living with the reality of it are two very different things.

Lilly vanishes behind the large tree that dominates the backyard, emerging from the other side with a long twing in her mitten-covered hand, which she uses to poke thoughtfully at the cold ground. “Cas, are you and Uncle Dean going to stay with us forever?”

He and Dean have been back at the house for three days; no one has actually discussed what they might do next. Dean is typically prickly, when it comes to discussions of the future. “I don’t know,” Castiel says, finally. “Your parents might want their guest room back.” 

They might not want him and Dean arguing in the kitchen, would be more likely. Or Castiel bleeding on their counter.

“No,” Lilly says, with the stark confidence of a child. “Because Uncle Dean is happy now.”

Castiel, caught off guard, flounders - can’t quite bring himself to say _is he?_ in front of a child - then the back door creaks open, the sound louder than it should be against the immobile cold.

“Hey, squirt - breakfast is ready,” Dean calls from the porch, and instantly Lilly is sprinting for the door. She stops only to crush herself against Dean’s side in a breathless hug. Castiel lingers on the lawn, feeling like his feet have sunk into the dying grass. Dean stands, not quite looking at him, one hand shoved into the pocket of his sweatpants, the other picking at some loose fragment of wood on the deck rail.

“You coming?” He asks, at last, and Castiel pushes forward, but Dean doesn’t move as he reaches the steps, doesn’t move as he climbs. When Castiel reaches the top, he finally shifts on one foot as if to step back and make room, only to pause. “Damn it, Cas - no gloves again?” He reaches for Castiel’s hands. The touch of his fingers is shockingly hot, like touching an open flame. “Are you really trying to lose a finger or what?”

He lifts Castiel’s hands to his lips, not for a kiss, but for three long, heavy puffs of warm air. They don’t cut through the cold, really, but for an instant there is a precious, shared warmth between them, damp against Castiel’s palms.

“You gotta wear your gloves, Cas. It’s _cold_.”

He knows that, of course. He’s not a child, or an idiot. But his body feels things differently now - heat, cold, pain, pleasure - he’d forgotten. He still forgets.

“You’re not even wearing a coat,” he observes.

Dean exhales into their joined hands again. “Yeah, well I wasn’t planning to stand around outside this long either.” His thumb skates over the bandage, delicate. “How’s the hand?”

“It’s a minor wound, Dean.” Matter-of-fact against the staggered beating of his heart. Suddenly, he wants to ask: _are you happy? Is this a mistake?_ But he doesn’t want to know the answer.

Dean huffs. Castiel watches his breath curl around his cheeks, soft and grey before it disappears. “Didn’t look minor when you were bleeding all over the counter.”

“You’ve seen me bleed before.” He doesn’t say _you’ve made me bleed before_ \- which seems petty, if truthful. They’ve both drawn blood on more than one occasion. 

Deans gaze shifts away - ashamed? Anxious? - it seems to take him a very long time to uncurl his fingers from around Castiel’s hands. “I was a dick, alright? I know - I just…”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

“Yeah I do. I do, Cas.” He steps in a little closer, his body curving almost instinctively forward. Seeking warth, seeking Castiel, and Castiel feels his heart soften at the honesty of it. “Almost woke you up when I came to bed last night just so I could say something but…”

Castiel chokes back a laugh before he can stop himself. “That probably wouldn’t have been the best idea.”

Dean smirks, “Yeah, even I’m not _that_ stupid.”

“You’re not stupid at all, Dean.”

“Shh.” He’s close enough to bump against Castiel now, arm sneaking out to hold Castiel’s hip, bracing rather than restraining. “You know - right? You know I didn’t mean that shit. I shouldn’t have said any of it.”

“I know.”

“You know I didn’t mean it,” Dean prods, gently, emboldened now. “Or you know I shouldn’t have said it?”

Castiel rolls his eyes, a little charmed, despite himself - which, really, is how it has always felt to love Dean - despite everything, he will. He _does_. It has never been easy, but it has always been worth it. “I know both of those things. And I forgive you. But don’t assume I’m incapable of something just because I have to learn.”

“I won’t,” he promises, earnest. “Cas - I’m pretty sure you’re capable of basically anything at this point. I mean - you put up with me.”

Though he’s used to Dean’s casual self-deprecation, it still manages to break his heart. “It’s not nearly as difficult as you seem to think. Or even as difficult as you want it to be.”

“Yeah, alright.” Dean’s eyes dart away, embarrassed. “If you say so.” He closes the negligible distance left between them, bumping his chilled nose gently against Castiel’s cheek in a wordless petition. Castiel draws back a little, so that Dean will follow him, so that he will make a tiny, pleading noise just before Castiel kisses him; barely a brush of lips until Dean’s fingers dig into the fabric of his coat, then gently deeper, so that Dean huffs in soft relief and his shoulders finally relax.

He slips a cold hand up the back of Dean’s shirt, elated by his quiet shiver and the way he presses deeper into Castiel’s mouth, as if that alone could chase away the cold - until Sam interrupts. 

“If you guys have kissed and made up - pancakes are getting cold.”

Dean pulls back to say something and there are snowflakes - everywhere - the size of quarters, tumbling around them, their delicate lace patterns on full display against the grey-gold of Dean’s hair, caught on his shoulders, melting against the bare skin of his arms. 

Dean blinks, bewildered, at Castiel’s beaming grin. “What?” He says, “It’s just snow.”

“No,” Castiel laughs, “it’s an answer.”

-end-


End file.
